Sunday 10th August 2025
Blog Page 1134

Live Review: Keston Cobblers’ Club

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Sometimes a little bit of jolty folk is just the ticket. An hour before they’re due onstage at the Bullingdon just down the road, Kent five-piece Keston Cobblers Club take to the stage in Oxford’s finest record treasure trove, Truck Store. Or, rather, they tuck themselves into the corner without mics and stomp and laugh their way through a short, sweet and very cosy set of acoustic numbers.

Laden with a limited drum kit (read: a sole snare), acoustic guitar and ukulele, the band could have been any ramshackle group of musicians pushed into this civilised setting of sofas and coffees amongst stacks of vinyl. But their somewhat alternative instrumentation adds an unforeseen flair: bass lines are taken up not by a typical string bass, but by tuba-playing Bethan Ecclestone, adding a depth and surprising bounciness to their buoyant, swelling folk-pop.

Covering Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland’ is a modern nod towards the folk tradition of sharing and re-playing songs. Sibling singers Matt and Julia Lowe’s harmonies burst through one another’s melody lines on this track, and castanets begin to get a-thumping.

Latest single ‘Win Again’ closes the set. Its lush syncopated vocal lines lead up to the dramatic, if slightly obvious, compound of ‘oohs’ as the harmonies now become four-part and really take centre stage. The close proximity yet stark deftness of these vocals is not to be messed with.

Brightly coloured children’s bells set next to a pineapple-shaped maraca highlight the crux of this band’s charm:  yes, their folk-pop is easily-listenable, with catchy riffs and gorgeous swooping melodies. But they’re a folk band – they play music for fun. And through this pounding percussion and these raucous tunes, Keston Cobblers Club take the Oxford crowd far away from the corner of a record shop on a rainy November evening, and back to the Kentish tavern and the local fiddler-come-cobbler from whom the band get their truly folksy name. 

Bodleian acquires lost Shelley poem

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The Bodleian Libraries have bought a lost poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley, marking their 12 millionth book.

The poem was published in 1811 when Shelley was in his first year at Oxford, but remained lost until 2006. This is the only copy of the poem in existence and was written shortly before he was expelled from Oxford.

The 20-page pamphlet entitled ‘Poetical Essay on the Existing State of Things’ contains a 10-page poem of 172 lines with both a preface and notes from the author himself. This pamphlet, which was printed by stationers on Oxford High Street over 200 years ago, will also be available online for free for the public.

The poem begins: “Destruction marks thee! o’er the blood-stain’d heath/ Is faintly borne the stifled wail of death;/ Millions to fight compell’d, to fight or die/ In mangled heaps on War’s red altar lie.” It goes on to address issues of the dysfunctional political institutions, the global impact of war and the abuse of the press.

After the copy of the pamphlet was rediscovered, having believed to have been lost to fire, a London book dealer held possession of it until the Bodleian acquired it. Richard Ovenden, Bodley’s Librarian, announced this news at the Weston Library on Tuesday evening. The actress and political activist Vanessa Redgrave read its preface, while Oxford students read the poem itself.

The price of the pamphlet remains confidential, but Cherwell understands it was purchased with the support of a benefactor.

Ovenden said, “The mission of a great library like the Bodleian is to preserve and manage its collections for the benefit of scholarship and to put knowledge into the hands of readers of all kinds. Through acquiring our 12 millionth book, ‘Poetical Essay on the Existing State of Things,’ we will be preserving this remarkable work for ever, and making available online a lost work by one of the greatest poets of all time. We are extremely grateful to the generous donors who made this acquisition and our website possible.”

Michael Rossington, Professor of Romantic Literature at the University of Newcastle stated, “This is a tremendously exciting moment. This substantial poem has been known about for years but as far as we know it hasn’t been read by any Shelley biographers or scholars since it was composed, and people are intrigued to find out exactly what it’s about. The poem is very interesting because it marks a new stage in Shelley’s development as a poet, revealing his early interest in the big issues of his day and his belief that poetry can be used to alter public opinion and effect change.”

Vanessa Redgrave CBE, said “I first read Shelley’s ‘The Masque of Anarchy’ when I was very young. He is intoxicating to read. His words transport you. I’m thrilled that, thanks to the Bodleian and its generous donors, this long lost poem of Shelley’s can be studied by students all over the world.”

The poem was written in response to Britain’s involvement in the Napoleonic Wars and in support of Irish journalist Peter Finnerty, who was accused of libel by the government and was imprisoned after criticising British military operations.

In the same year as writing this poem, he was expelled from Oxford after refusing to deny he had written a pamphlet called ‘The Necessity of Atheism’.

In Ovenden’s speech on Tuesday evening, he also said, “Our 12 millionth book was thought lost for 200 years. It was written by Percy Bysshe Shelley, an Oxford undergraduate, a twenty year-old who had already, somewhat precociously, been published as a novelist and poet.

“Although from a privileged background, he held strong moral principles like political freedom, the freedom of the press, the horrors of war, and the injustices that war and tyranny bring to the lives of ordinary people. His views on religion were radical enough to get him thrown out of Oxford. This young, passionate, brilliant undergraduate took the manuscripts of his latest poem a few hundred yards up the High Street from his college rooms at Univ to the printing firm Munday and Slatter, where it was printed and placed in their shop window.

“All of this transpired in the spring of 1811, a few short weeks before Shelley would be expelled from his college and from his university – and the stock of this book lost – probably through an act of deliberate destruction.

“This young man would however, rise above these misfortunes and become one of the most famous and influential poets of all time, one whose work is still studied, read, enjoyed and which remains a source of inspiration today.”

The poem will be on display at the Weston Library until 23 December, the online version is available at poeticalessay.bodleian.ox.ac.uk.

Live Review: Declan Zapala

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If, like me, you hail from Watford and you discover the town has produced something beautiful, YOU.GRAB.HOLD.OF.IT. I’ve been raving about The Staves for months, less so about Vinnie Jones, Geri Halliwell and Elton. But now I can proudly add Declan Zapala to my list of home-town gems, especially since I later discover he attended my school. Zapala entertained a small crowd in the recently opened Attico Art Gallery, promoting his new album Awakenings and his performance was as visual as it was auditory. His guitar was caressed either brazenly like a sitar or tenderly like a new-born baby, depending on which angle afforded the best sound. In fact Zapala transforms the instrument beyond a guitar: his dexterity produces an entire percussion base and even a double bass such as in the song ‘Broken Rhapsody’ by loosening the strings mid-song. On the percussive guitar spectrum, with Rodrgo y Gabriela and Ben Howard at either stylistic extreme, I would place Zapala midway. He’s a solo artist, but not a singer/songwriter, and whilst his rhythm is more energetic and less mellow than Howard, the frenetic, carnival-esque fury of the Mexican duo is simply alien to the charming, lilting tributes of Zapala to his family. In fact his mother was in the audience, and the song ‘Philomena’ is dedicated to her. Glancing at her during this enchanting song, I could tell something special and personal was being communicated.

After uploading ‘Crystal’ to YouTube, Zapala was launched, and for good reason. Performed live with fierce energy, the guitar itself was in motion, every string blurred with vibration whilst the lower guitar body was intricately drummed. The beginning is like something gothic from the A Series of Unfortunate Events soundtrack, but then four minutes in, it gets super dynamic. Zapala said that The Selfish Gene inspired Crystals with questions like ‘What is life?’ and the miracle of atomic particles interpreted through percussive guitar. Throughout the evening, Zapala would warmly discuss his music, also taking the opportunity to remind us that we were on Watford High Street. Well, geographically yes, but musically we couldn’t be further. Whisked away to his locations of inspiration, we enjoyed the music of Turkish goat herders, Irish folk ballads and Spanish serenades. Zapala’s influences are both unusual and popular; Carlo Domeniconi, Eric Roche and Led Zeppelin to name a few, but the Classical element is also important. The album includes guitar renditions of Bach’s cello suite and prelude.

Innuendoes featuring lube and floppy microphones aside, I could have been attending a prosecco-fuelled mindfulness class. Nothing short of mesmerising, Zapala’s is the kind of music which releases your thoughts, particularly in ‘Sleeping Gently’ – a song written for his nephew – with the pitter-patter plucking evoking raindrops. I wonder several things: how his hands aren’t bruised…how I could possibly be in Watford…how I could write up such a unique performance… There is an incredible intelligence, strength and concentration to Zapala. Definitely worth a listen!

Interview: The Cribs at the O2 Academy

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In a nondescript dressing room backstage at the O2 Academy, Ryan Jarman, guitarist of Wakefield trio The Cribs, tells me the story of the  band since their first show in Oxford  11 years ago.

Then, the three Jarmans, Ryan, twin Gary and younger brother Ross,  were touring relentlessly following the release of their raw and self-produced eponymous debut . They often played for free or multiple times a night in tiny venues, to hone their act and raise their profile. But Ryan is far from nostalgic for those early days, happy to move on to bigger and better things. “We’ve already had that intimacy”, he tells me.

Now, the band are playing in support of their sixth record, For All My Sisters. This is the first release following their move to Sony from the independent Wichita Recordings. “I feel like our relationship had changed a little”, Jarman explains, though alas without further elaboration . But it’s been a very positive move, he tells me.  “Because we’ve been around for so long, they know what band they’re getting, so we’re kind of more independent than before”.

More than just the label has changed since those early days. Though Ross has remained in Wakefield (where a plaque commemorates the city’s most famous musical sons), Ryan now lives in New York and Gary is based in Portland, Oregon. Ryan sees this as broadening the band’s musical horizons. “If we all still lived together, we’d have a lack of inspiration. Now we’re all very different people, who bring different things to the table.” Indeed, Ryan delights in telling me about his projects outside of The Cribs, including forming a band with his American wife as well as collaborating with Julian Casablancas of The Strokes.

But it’s not all different on this album for The Cribs. Jarman tells me how it represents something of a return to an earlier sound.  The band’s third album, Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever, progressed from their initial lo-fi offerings (being slickly produced by Alex Kapranos of Franz Ferdinand) and  propelled them into the realm of critical and commercial success. Subsequently, ex-The Smiths and Modest Mouse guitarist Johnny Marr joined the band from 2008 to 2011. “Once that record came out, Johnny joined the band and that took us in a different direction. Then Johnny left, and that sent us off in another completely different direction”. Thus, whereas Jarman describes their previous release, In the Belly of the Brazen Bull, as “dark, heavy and sprawling”, he sees their newest record as “a bit more stripped back, a bit simpler, a bit poppier” – the follow-up to Men’s Needs… that never was.

Out on stage, Esper Scout and The Wytches warm up the crowd with a punchy style clearly influenced by heavy listening to The Cribs in their formative years (“It makes us feel old”, Jarman had told me earlier). However, they received a fairly lukewarm reception from a crowd clearly full of ardent fans awaiting their heroes. Jarman had told me they ” try to keep it as interesting as possible… we do everything to make sure this doesn’t feel like a job” by avoiding endless repetition of setlists and trying to focus on newer material. Though, of course, this is hard to balance against the demands of a crowd yearning  for the hits. Indeed, their efforts to rest fan favourite Another Number earlier in this tour were curtailed when the crowd  began to sing the characteristic riff as they attempted another song.

The band’s 90 minute set was well-received by the energetic and engaged crowd, who went wild for classics such as “Hey Scenesters” and “Mirror Kissers”, and rapidly warmed to the diverse introductions from the new album, including the catchy “Burning for No One”, the Weezer-esque “An Ivory Hand” (the album is produced by Ric Ocasek, who worked on Weezer’s Blue album) and the swirling, mesmeric “Pink Snow”,  which ended their sweaty set.

The Cribs are a remarkable band. They’ve released six albums that are each unique and special in their own way, yet they’re able to deftly blend choice pickings from each together to create a phenomenal live set. From the performance given tonight, and the bubbling enthusiasm of the Jarman brothers for their music and their fans, it’s clear this will continue for many years and albums to come. 

When the World is Not Enough

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We meet again. Bond is back, and with him a flurry of advertisements starring Daniel Craig’s chiselled physique, seductive snarl, and icy blue gaze. From Omega watches (‘James Bond’s Choice’) to Champagne Bollinger (‘the champagne of James Bond’) and Belvedre Vodka (imaginatively, ‘An excellent choice, Mr Bond’), one only has to flip through the pages of GQ, or even walk down the street, to see the actor Craig – and the fictional character associated with him – endorse product after product.

Of course, when it comes to Bond, there’s a distinct element of British pride, and our nation’s slight infatuation with the cool, slick character to take into account. Bond is beyond our aspirations; playing, one suspects, a large role in the fact that his character can slide out of the most improbable situations with not a sniff from film critics, and waltz, martini in hand, away from allegations from Craig himself that the spy is ‘actually a misogynist’. The large brands using Craig as their poster boy seem perfectly comfortable with extending our desire to emulate Bond to a fixation with Craig; and herein lies the crux of the issue – is celebrity endorsement; be the celebrity existent or invented – good for the fashion industry?

Celebrity culture is rife. The late 1990s and early noughties saw our obsession with the upper echelon of pop society: the beautiful; the wealthy; the talented, soar. Before the launch of celebrity perfumes, handbags and makeup lines, the major fashion houses dominated sales. Now, although undoubtedly less respected, and often, much cheaper, the shelves in department stores are crammed with bottles and jars plastered with the faces of Kardashians, One Direction and Nicki Minaj. It’s true that many of these endorsed products are, in reality, owned by the companies from which we might suspect the singers and reality TV stars to be taking profit – Nicki Minaj’s range, for example, is manufactured by Elizabeth Arden. Inescapable, however, is the fact that by essentially killing two birds with one stone, the production of these commodities, and associated advertising campaigns, transform singers, actors and footballers into conglomerates with fingers in too many pies.

By using a celebrity to endorse anything; be it a bag, a foundation, or a bottle of vodka, the associations and experiences of that celebrity intrinsically become part of the campaign. For many brands, this is only a good thing. Daniel Craig wears an Omega watch? Bond wears an Omega watch. If you buy an Omega watch, the world’s most beautiful women will fall at your feet (and, you know, you might get to shoot a gun). Gwyneth Paltrow wears Boss Ma Vie? Boss Ma Vie must be the elixir of life. Smell like Gwynnie, get Gwynnie’s legs. And so the list goes on. Calvin Klein jeans, the brand that discovered 18-year-old Kate Moss (or certainly boosted her dizzying rise to fame), has recently chucked the real models, opting for David Beckham, Justin Bieber and Kendall Jenner, to name a few. Jenner’s own status as a model-cum-celebrity, ranking her among the likes of Cara Delevinge, Gigi Hadid, and the supers of the early 90s, place her without question in a different league; one obscenely elevated from their modelling peers.   

For, as model and actress Isabella Rossellini explains, ‘it’s the celebrity that gives them the longevity. Most models start working less at 30, and then by the time they are 35 it’s over completely.’ Magazine covers; adverts; major campaigns – the celebrities and the models are embroiled in a battle to the death, and the celebrities are winning. Gone are the days when endless legs and a pretty face might land you a contract; can you sing? Can you act? Bookings Model agency concedes ‘It’s all about celebrity culture these days’, echoing a recent Cindy Crawford interview, in which the super model claimed the ‘modelling heyday’ of the 1990s to be ‘over’.

American Vogue editor Anna Wintour was widely criticised for her Kimye cover, with many claiming that by shifting the focus of the magazine from couture to Kardashian, Condé Naste had lost integrity. But Wintour’s ever-savvy approach was unquestionably a reaction to something we all knew anyway – the market has spoken, and the market wants celebs. Now, was that martini shaken, or stirred? 

Canal Coating

Fur, feathers, fabulousness; welcome to winter.

Photography: Mark Barclay

Styling: Emily Pritchard

Artistic Direction: Emmanuelle Soffe

Models: Elena Zanchini, Andrea Sisko, Hannah Cassens Marshall

Location: Jericho Canal

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From left to right: Hannah wears Faux Fur Coat, Topshop. Elena wears Military Coat, Asos, and Fur Scarf, Primark. Andrea wears Wool-Mix Coat, Her Own.

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Andrea wears Ostrich Feather Jacket, Stylist’s Own. Andrea wears Bohemian Peacock Coat, Story of Lola. Hannah wears Silk Kimono, Stylist’s Own.

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Elena wears Faux Fur Coat (just seen), Urban Decay. Andrea wears Wool Cape and Suede Mittens, both New Look. Hannah wears Coat, Elena’s Own, and Faux Fur Scarf, as before.

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Andrea wears Cape and Mittens, as before. Cashmere Scarf, Marks and Spencer.

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Metallic Backpack, Topshop. Silver Boots, Handmade by Model.

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Andrea wears Scuba Jacket, Topshop. 

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Watch, Model’s Own.

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Faux Fur Coat, Urban Decay.

 

 

A view from the cheap seat

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“Oh that this too edgy episode could blunt… that it should come to this just three episodes in” 

A fragment from the first folio entitled ‘A View From the Cheap Seat’

 

Productions featured in this week’s episode…

 

Spring Awakening: Wednesday to Saturday, Sixth Week, Keble O’reilly, 7:30

https://www.facebook.com/Spring-Awakening-at-the-Keble-OReilly-18th-21st-November-2015-914453848592415/?fref=ts

Dart:Wednesday to Saturday, Sixth Week, BT, 9:30

https://www.facebook.com/DARTplay1721/?fref=ts

 

 

On brunch

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“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well,” Virginia Woolf tells us, “if one has not dined well.” Cutting to the truth of the matter as ever, Woolf nevertheless gives me cause to quibble. The formal, candle-lit, smartly-dressed connotations of ‘dining’ are smugly satisfactory in their own way, but dinner is not the meal through which we can really achieve the balanced fulfilment Woolf envisions. 

Dinner marks the closing of the day; there’s no new hope in it. Once one has settled down to dinner, one resigns any right to carpe diem – one instead seizes the carp and tucks in. Its communal ideal is what we find in Woolf’s To The Lighthouse: “Some change at once went through them all, as if this had really happened, and they were all conscious of making a party together in a hollow, on an island.” The rich food of dinner time ties us to sleep and to each other.

I could say a great deal about lunch, but little of it would be complimentary. It has always struck me as the most difficult of meals, coming as it does in forms as varied as a sandwich wrapped in cling fi lm or a steak with all the trimmings. What is lunch? I leave this dilemma to other pens.

Breakfast is, of course, the most important meal of the day. All my worst days begin with a bad breakfast. It is the meal that promises a whole new day ahead, and it must be attended to with care. But breakfast taken alone at an early hour can feel perfunctory. The truest unification of reinvigoration, communality, and inspiration comes in breakfast’s sexy younger brother, brunch.

First suggested by Guy Beringer in 1895, brunch is the perfect solution to finding breakfast too light and lunch too heavy. It brings people together but it also provides the individual with a way to recharge and regain confidence for the week ahead.

I learnt the craft of brunch at home. I have memorised the recipe for American pancakes, and found the perfect time to boil eggs. My father rises early on the weekends for a bike ride and by the time he returns my mother and I are wandering the ground floor in our dressing gowns. We make eggs with cheese and spinach, coffee is poured, and the three of us eat together at the oversized dining table. We delight in it more than any other meal, buying treats to go with it like smoked salmon or brioche.

When friends visit, we lose all sense of proportion and ridiculously over-cater. Some of my most vivid childhood memories involve laying the table for a huge eight-person brunch. In the kitchen, the adults would battle spitting fat to produce bowls of bacon and sausages. A basket of pains au chocolat was passed around. These could last past midday and even require a refill of the large cafetière, but we were still left with the entire afternoon to dispose of as we pleased.

In brunch, time does not exist in the same way that it does elsewhere. It glides on in measures of “one more coffee” rather than minutes. There is no strain to achieve in brunch. Satisfaction is reached through the completion of a crossword with friends, or the slant of the sun through the window, or the discovery that there are indeed more hash browns. At Somerville, brunch is served for twice as long as any other meal; the concept of midday becomes so elastic that it can be spread to cover several hours of reading, talking, eating, and drinking.

Going ‘out’ for brunch is, I grant you, a different experience. But what it loses in affordability and homeliness, it makes up for in luxury. Breakfast foods are among the easiest to prepare, but there are certain things that I will never have the inclination nor the imagination to produce. Professionally made French toast or eggs Benedict are a gift worth paying for. 

In this setting, the natural community feel which comes from brunch at home or college is put under strain. Instead it is replaced by an air of celebration. This is a tool to be used as frequently as possible. I have comforted old friends in hard and hungover times by taking them out for a reassuring full English. I have forged new connections through a mutual appreciation of eggs Royale. I have been for countless birthday brunches in London and Winchester and Portsmouth, each of them with a group of people I want to see happy and well-fed.

Brunch is not just a meal, it is an experience. At over 100 years old, it is still relatively novel to us, and to some is still appears unnecessary. This is precisely the point. I do not need brunch, but its very uselessness removes any pressure on the meal. Instead, one can relax, refresh, and enjoy.

Home or Roam: Glasgow, a cultural mecca?

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As an Oxford student with an accent, I am frequently asked upon meeting people, “So, where are you from?” To this blunt query I have three possible answers: Somerville College, if I’m feeling sarky; Scotland, if I want them to like me; and Glasgow; if I don’t. To say that Glasgow’s got a slightly different reputation to the rest of Scotland is an understatement. The latter seems invoke for most Southerners a magical, Macbethian world of castles and ceilidhs and Glenfiddich and faeries, the former a gritty city full of tracksuited Buckfast drinkers committing knife crimes all over the place (while teenage and pregnant). Though it may be true that Glasgow is very different to the rest of Scotland, these reputations are, somewhat, unfair. Trainspotting was, as any indignant Wegie will tell you, set in Edinburgh, and though they may have their fancy castle, it’s Glasgow that has the culture.

Described by Vice as “a paradise,” and not just because of the cheap and abundant drugs, Glasgow is not-so-secretly a cultural hive. With one of the best and most beautiful art schools in Europe and more hipstery music and theatre venues than lamp posts, there’s always fifteen things you could be doing right now, and they’re all less than twenty minutes away on the genuinely excellent bus system or adorably miniature one-line underground system. You can seek out cool house, electronic and techno club nights in semi-refurbished warehouse and train arches if that’s your thing (the latter even has a FunktionOne soundsystem), or you can down one pound Jaegerbombs to the sounds of the Sugababes in one of Glasgow’s many LGBTQ+ or friendly clubs. 

Whether you take your tea with scones or shisha, party White Lightning or White Russians, eat veal or vegan, you’ll always find your fix. I’m not exaggerating – the Willow Tea Rooms on Buchanan, the main shopping street, let you enjoy high tea in the beautifully preserved rooms designed by the internationally renowned Art Deco architect Charles Rennie MacIntosh. Tchai-Ovna serves over 100 types of tea and offers hookah pipes for rent. Although voted Britain’s vegan capital in 2013, you don’t even have to leave the train station to find top quality Angus beef steaks – just pop into Alston Bar & Beef.

Glasgow doesn’t just have things to do, it has things to see: due to its immense wealth accumulated through its involvement in shipping and trade, the second city of the Empire is packed with beautiful Victorian and Art Deco buildings. There are a vast selection of museums and galleries that showcase not just the work of international artists but many of our own making. While the Turner Prize exhibition on right now is not to be missed, neither are the beautiful and culturally critical works of the Scottish Colourists and the Glasgow boys, to be found at Scotland’s oldest public museum, the Hunterian.

If this all gets a bit overwhelming, you can always find some peace and quiet in one of Glasgow’s many lush and gorgeous parks, such as the Botanic Gardens, home to the iconic Kibble Palace hothouse and the Bard in the Botanics outdoor Shakespeare productions in summer. If that isn’t enough of an escape you can drive the hour it takes to get to the infamous Loch Lomond, surrounded by the The Trossachs protected National Park. Once you’re up there, you may as well drive a little further and pay a visit to Loch Fyne, along with its famous fresh oyster bar (Madonna’s favourite restaurant in Britain).

Glasgow may not quite evoke the glamour of the other cultural meccas of Europe, but it doesn’t have the prices, either. For a cheap, trendy, busy weekend away, it’s the perfect unexpected location.

Creaming Spires MT15 week 5

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In recent times, this column has become a bastion of male homosexual erotica. I’m here to change that.

Cast your minds back to the sultry summer days of Trinity Term 2015. I, a naïve (ok, well not really) young Classicist, arrive at my first meeting with my tutor that term. When I walk in, tutor and students alike are giggling about another, rather eccentric, Keble don, who just happens to be my favourite evil genius around. One undergrad is particularly on point with acerbic quips. I glance across the room at the purveyor of such flawless banter. She is on the cute side, but with that evil glint in her eye that makes me want her there. 

And it just so happens that Sarah will be my tute partner this term. The difficulty in achieving my classical fantasy is that I have already spent a steamy night or two with the majority of her best, male, friends. On one of these occasions, my unlucky night-time companion was deaned for noise complaints relating to the proximity of a certain communal bathroom to a junior dean’s bedroom. I assume that to her I seem like the towering pinnacle of heterosexual promiscuity. Little does she know that my interest in ancient history isn’t limited to uprisings; I’ve always had a distinct penchant for Roman and Greek (non-Platonic) caves.

I spend my next few tutorials giggling a little too much at her sardonic back-and-forth with our tutor, each tute moving steadily closer to her side of the sofa. Sadly, it seems she’s more interested in flirting with our professor than she is with getting to know the finer details of my… personality. We do, however, share a number of not-too-fleeting moments of eye contact. Could it be that she knows that I’m yearning to see something more than her tutorial notes?

The next week, following another round of repartee in the don’s room, Sarah casually slips into the conversation that she is in fact very queer. My face, and elsewhere, lights up; is she suggesting that, like me, she’s interested in a more hands-on approach to peer criticism? I decide to take the plunge at the ball we are both attending that night.

My evening becomes devoted to hunting her down. Eventually, I find her in the main stage tent. She’s looking amazing in a black dress that clings to her great body. Her personality and wit aren’t her only huge assets. We dance together for a while, hands finding their way to unknown territories. The sexual tension is mounting, and we finally kiss, hotly and sensuously. We make the excuse of needing to get a tampon and quickly make our escape to the bedroom.

Almost before we’re through the door, our ball gowns are on the floor. She pushes me onto the bed and climbs on top. My intrepid classical adventurer begins to explore my southern hemisphere with fearless pleasure. She’s definitely done this before, and her graceful fingers quickly lead to noise levels that could easily result in another deaning. Sated, we lie in each other’s arms as the sun rises over the post-ball carnage outside. 

We continue our dalliance for the remainder of our tutorials together. I wonder if our professor is aware that his two students’ fingers aren’t spending most of their time typing up essays. Our tryst is great, but I inevitably feel the pull of my voyage of sexual discovery, and by the end of term I’m back in the Bridge smoking area with one thing on my mind.

Suffice it to say, though, that Homer isn’t the only thing I’ll remember this term.